


daffodils

by polarizedprincess



Category: American Horror Story: Apocalypse, American Horror Story: Coven
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/F, Hanahaki Disease, Hurt/Comfort, tw for blood and death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 09:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18385448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polarizedprincess/pseuds/polarizedprincess
Summary: flowers bloom in cordelia goode's chest the day she meets misty day.(or: a goode-day hanahaki disease AU)





	daffodils

**Author's Note:**

> I've always liked hanahaki disease AUs so I thought it would be fun to write one for my favourite witches ! I hope you enjoy the fic !!

The delicate magic of potions and herbalism was something Cordelia began to fall in love with when she first began to understand the power that lay in plants and nature. From spending many hours in the greenhouse of the Academy, she managed to glean a slice of the world of magic hidden behind the unassuming appearances of the plants.

Maybe a little part of her wanted to believe she was like the plants. Being the daughter of the Supreme meant she had very big (heeled, obviously) shoes to fill, which meant she was always pushing herself to her limit. That came with benefits, of course - Cordelia was easily the smartest witch her year, albeit the loneliest. Therefore a significant portion of her time was spent in the greenhouse by herself, surrounded by the serenity of the quiet magic of the plants.

Cordelia particularly enjoyed reading the old grimoires from the academy collection, nicked from the restricted section. She was, after all, Fiona Goode’s daughter. Though she lacked companionship, there was a certain comfort in the rough parchment of the spellbooks, a sense of purpose, with the scratchy sound of pages turning.

It was while she was studying the magical properties of flowers that she learned of the Hanahaki disease. The Hanahaki disease is an illness caused by unrequited love. Flowers will blossom in the chest of the victim, causing them to cough up petals until they suffocated from the flowers blooming within them, or the object of their affection felt the same way.

The illness is interesting, in the sense that perceived one-sided love could also cause the victim to cough up flower petals. Whether or not the other person felt the same, if the victim was not aware of their feelings, they would die anyway.

The disease had fascinated young Cordelia endlessly. It was a strange concept to consider - dying of unrequited love. Was that even possible, to love someone so much that whole flowers would bloom in one’s chest?

Wouldn’t it be awfully cruel, to be killed by something so beautiful?

She never expected to find that out for herself.

 

* * *

Years later, Cordelia meets Hank, who is sweet and charming and wonderful, and she falls for him fast. Hank is everything Cordelia has ever wanted - he is patient with her, gently encouraging, and most of all he pissed Fiona off.

With him, she never coughed up a single petal, and either it was because he loved her as much as she loved him, or if she simply was not afflicted by the disease.

Much later, Cordelia would find out that it was neither of those, but that was yet to come.

She and Hank were happy. He was understanding and supportive of her being a witch, and he kept her grounded while she navigated the stress of being the headmistress of the Academy.

But Hank is away a lot, and Cordelia is very lonely. There have been countless nights of her awakening in the dark, fingers outstretched in a cold, empty bed for a man who is a million miles away.

When Hank is away, she throws herself into her research, into working on her potions and refining her craft. Cordelia easily knows more about potions and herbalism than most other witches, though this branch of magic is mostly looked down on, primarily from her mother. Some part of her does wonder if Fiona would think they were such a waste of time had anyone other than Cordelia chosen to specialise in them.

When she is not studying up on magic, Cordelia is searching for any potential witches who need her. The line of witches is dying; most girls either don’t recognise their potential, or suffer because of it. The work she does has a certain resonance to her soul - to find lost souls out there, and keep them safe. Cordelia herself has never needed to be found, but she has always been lost.

Cordelia finds the woman who would one day kill her in her search for young witches who need her help. She happens upon an article about a woman burned at the stake, and Cordelia looks her up, to find out the circumstances of her death.

Her name is -  _ was _  - Misty Day. The picture attached to the article shows a young woman, not that much younger than Cordelia herself. Cordelia’s heart tightens as she reads about her life and her recent death, and she strengthens her resolve to find any young witches and keep them safe. She doesn’t think much of her then, but in a few short weeks, she is all that fills Cordelia’s mind.

* * *

 

 

Flowers bloom in Cordelia Goode’s chest the day she meets Misty Day.

It has only been years, though to Cordelia it feels like a lifetime. She has long since forgotten about the disease, and other fanciful notions of love. She is blind, the coven defenseless, her girls going missing one by one. Cordelia’s sole task is to keep her charges safe, and she is incapable of doing even that. With the loss of her sight, she is unable to protect even herself. Bit by bit, Cordelia is unraveling.

On a quiet summer afternoon, while she is plotting with her girls to bring down her mother, her death comes to her in the form of a beautiful woman she cannot see.

“Who is it?” Cordelia asks, tapping her way towards her with her cane.

“A witch,” Zoe says. “Seeking safety.”

“Somebody’s looking to kill me.” A voice she does not recognise speaks. The strange voice is low, with a hint of a Cajun accent; Cordelia has met enough people in her research to recognise certain accents instantly.

Slowly, Cordelia extends a hand to the stranger. After a moment, she feels a pair of hands clasp her own. She feels the roughness of the stranger’s hands, feels the heavy rings on their fingers and the cold mud on their palms. If she isn’t mistaken, she swears she can smell earth.

When the stranger allows her mind to be laid bare, Cordelia’s world explodes.

An entire life unfolds in her mind, so fast she almost misses it, slipping through her fingers even as she tries to grasp at it. She catches brief flashes here and there - swamp water, dancing in the rain, old music, flowers, falling leaves. Fleeting, transcendentally lovely things that make up this stranger’s soul. What Cordelia is unable to see, she  _ feels _ , in this woman.

A hint of deep, aching loneliness, so similar to the one she herself carries, whispers by her in a rush. Cordelia feels earth and rain and sunshine and the burning heat of fire licking at bare skin and a voice, echoing through her head: “it is you that will end in flames. I swear it.”

In Misty’s hand, Cordelia feels a universe.

“You’re Misty Day,” Cordelia says breathlessly. Of all the people she has read in her life, Cordelia has never felt anything like this before. Something in her chest twists painfully, but she barely even notices. “You were set on fire and left for dead. Whatever troubles you have, they are ours now. This is your house.”

Cordelia spends the rest of the day arranging for accommodations for Misty, ignoring the lingering ache in her chest. The pain in her lungs only flares up at night, when she is alone, a small mercy she is grateful for.

She doubles over, coughing and clutching her chest, her ears ringing and her lungs blazing, feeling as though something is trying to claw its way out of her chest. A single petal falls from her lips, leaving behind the sweet taste of flowers, mingling with the metallic taste of blood.

_ It can’t be _ . Blindly, Cordelia fumbles for the petal, feeling the smooth texture between her fingertips, heart-stoppingly real when coupled with the lingering metallic taste in her mouth.

The deep, ancient magic of love takes root in her chest, and begins to grow.

 

* * *

Cordelia can’t say she’s angry at Myrtle for restoring her sight; dear God has she missed being able to  _ see _ . But it comes with a heavy price - the loss of her second sight. And, unknown to her, a slight acceleration in her death.

In the wake of her returned sight, Cordelia is on her way to the greenhouse, to be with her beloved plants again, only to discover Misty is already in there. She has music playing, and is dancing amongst the plants, her halo of curls flying, her movements full of life. Careful not to be seen, Cordelia quietly studies her from afar.

Misty’s hair is blonde, the colour of daffodils, and tumbles down her shoulders in a wild, tangled mess of curls. She is tall, with broad shoulders and toned arms, and her features are strong, and yet she possesses a strangely ethereal aura; almost like an angel.

She could easily just dance in her room, but maybe she, like Cordelia, is happier around plants, as though she belongs with the earth. Misty twirls to the music with her arms outstretched, her shawl trailing behind her. She almost looks like a bird in flight, just like that line from that one Fleetwood Mac song Cordelia has always liked.

The natural light filtering in from the roof of the greenhouse, mingling with the artificial illumination of the hanging lights inside, highlight Misty in bright, brilliant shades. They shine off her blonde curls, dancing on her face, painting her silhouette in an aura of light.

She is a beacon of radiant energy, carrying the magic of the earth around her like a shroud. Her magic reflects off the quiet power of the magic hidden within the plants, lighting up the dreary atmosphere. She is the closest Cordelia has ever been to the sun.

For a moment, Cordelia stands at the doorway silently, wordlessly bewitched. Misty glances up, as though sensing her presence, but already Cordelia is gone, rushed to an empty room to double over, clawing at her chest while she coughs up two delicate flower petals.

Cordelia slides to the ground, her back against the wall. She holds the petals in her hand, her mouth filled with the sickly sweet combination of flowers and blood.

With the return of her sight, she can finally see the petal from the flowers in her chest. The petal is light yellow, marginally triangular, the edges curled up slightly. She recognises this flower. Daffodils.

And she recognises that yellow too. The colour of Misty’s hair.

Cordelia is afraid that she might understand exactly what this all means.

* * *

 

 

Misty comes to Cordelia one night, asking her to teach her potions and herbalism. Cordelia has never had any of her girls ask her for help before, much less ask her about her potions, and she readily agrees.

The two of them work in her greenhouse while the other girls are out doing God-knows-what. Cordelia doesn’t have time to explain the property of each herb in detail, so she lends Misty one of her own spellbooks. Every single plant has been carefully sketched, their properties painstakingly handwritten by Cordelia herself. This grimoire is a piece of her heart, a compilation of all her knowledge and everything she herself is worth. She’s never let anyone else even touch it, but she trusts the girl with the muddy hands to keep it safe.

It is during these sessions that Cordelia gets to properly see Misty’s face. Her features are strong, from the angle of her jaw to the point of her nose. Her eyes are blue, a deep, almost greyish blue. They remind Cordelia of the colour of the ocean during rain, a comparison that makes her blush the first time it crosses her mind.

Cordelia keeps her word to teach Misty magic. Spells to make plants flourish, to change their appearance, to return them from the dead, which tie in with Misty’s own power of resurgence. Misty asks for a demonstration of that particular spell, and Cordelia obliges. A part of her is eager to show off, to perform her special brand of magic to someone who would (hopefully) appreciate it the way she does.

She takes a withered plant and places it on the table. Cordelia whispers the incantation from memory, having done this hundreds of times. It is a spell even teenage Cordelia could do in her sleep. The brown leaves of the plant unfurl and turn green, the withered stems growing upwards, the dead flowers blooming back to life.

“That is the coolest shit I’ve ever seen,” Misty says, a tad breathlessly. This is a spell Cordelia has performed for both her mother and her Aunt Myrtle, neither of whom found it particularly impressive. And yet it is this woman, with her own extraordinary powers of resurgence that far supercede Cordelia’s simple spell, who sees the beauty in such a small, seemingly insignificant piece of magic.

Misty turns to look at Cordelia, turning the full force of those bright blue eyes on her. Her face is alight with an almost childlike amazement, her eyes wide and her smile full of genuine wonder. It is that look right there that’s what’s killing Cordelia.

Cordelia smiles, and she feels the flowers in her chest tighten.

 

* * *

Her hands are clapped onto her mouth, and she is crouched with her knees folded beneath her on the floor of the bathroom. She wants to cry out from the agony in her chest, but refuses to allow herself to succumb to the weakness of pain.

Cordelia coughs and coughs and coughs, her lungs on fire, yellow petals tumbling from her lips. She lets them spill between her fingers, gracefully falling to the floor.

Her entire body is trembling. She removes her hands from her face, getting a good look at them. Yellow petals, pale hands, crimson blood. Well, the blood is something new. She reckons she’s dying faster than she thought she would.

With a quick pyrokinesis spell, Cordelia incinerates the petals, then disposes of the ash and stands up. Cordelia washes the blood off her lips and teeth, brushes her hair back, and takes a deep breath, taking in her appearance. She sighs, softly, but so, so very tiredly.

 

* * *

 

 

Misty happens to be with Cordelia on the day Hank returns to the academy. The two witches are down in the greenhouse, working on a plant that would provide protection berries for the girls. Truthfully, Cordelia isn’t sure berries would shield them from silver bullets, but she just wants an excuse to spend more time with Misty.

Her time with Misty in the greenhouse is her only source of happiness these days. In addition to talking about plants, Misty talks about herself too. She talks about her life, her parents, her undying love for Stevie Nicks. Cordelia herself, in turn, tells Misty about her childhood, about her magic, even about her mother.

In her entire life, Cordelia has never really known what it is like to have a friend, but she may finally be starting to understand.

Misty performs the resurrection spell on the plant this time, and her excitement brightens up the greenhouse like sunshine.

“Damn,” Misty says, laughing. “That is so cool!”It’s strangely adorable, almost pure, even, how Misty gets so excited over a simple resurrection spell, one that even requires a potion to work, especially when she herself has the power of resurgence.

She raises her hands to high-five Cordelia, who hesitates for barely a split second before tapping her palms to Misty’s. Misty clutches her hands, and the two of them draw close together, giggling like teenagers.

“We make a great team,” Cordelia says, and she can’t contain her smile. Her hands are in Misty’s, and the other witch forgets to let go, and Cordelia hopes she never remembers.

With a gentle start, Misty releases Cordelia’s hand, as though she’d forgotten to let go. The two witches pluck the berries from the plant and pop them into their mouths.  _ Well, protection or not, at least they’ll make a good salad, _  Cordelia thinks to herself with mild amusement.

Misty heads to the back to collect some mud for the potion, and stops short. Her words fall from her lips, almost in a rush, as though she has to get them out before she loses her nerve.

“You’re such an awesome leader, Miss Cordelia,” Misty says to her, her voice full of sincerity. “I’ve got so much to learn from you.”

Cordelia knows that’s not true, but the little knowing look Misty gives her right before she leaves is enough to make her stop doubting herself for just a moment.

As though on cue, Hank stumbles into the greenhouse as though he belongs there - he doesn’t, the greenhouse belongs to her and Misty only - reeking of alcohol. Cordelia is momentarily overcome by the weakness of sentimentality, before understanding that she no longer loves him, and that she’s never loved him. She loved the idea of having a husband to love and care for her unconditionally, unlike her own mother, and part of her hates herself for taking this long to come to terms with it.

Much as she hates to admit it, Fiona was right, and she only married him to prove some childish point to her. She tells him to leave, her resolve wavering initially, only to be later fortified by Misty, who stands resolutely by her side, quietly lending her some of her strength.

After Hank finally leaves, Cordelia sighs and buries her face in her hands, crumbling just a little. She fully expects Misty to mumble some excuse and leave, and is instead surprised by the weight of a heavy-ringed hand resting gently on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Misty says comfortingly. Misty, who didn’t even do anything wrong, is the one apologising, when it should be Cordelia saying sorry, for letting him endanger the coven. For almost putting Misty in harm’s way.

“Don’t apologise, Misty, it’s not your fault,” Cordelia replies. “It’s mine.”

“Hey, this ain’t on you. Don’t beat yourself up about it. We all have our own shit.” The twang of her Cajun accent is oddly comforting, not to mention extremely endearing. She looks into Cordelia’s eyes, a tiny smile curving her lips, genuine warmth in her eyes. Cordelia returns a tiny smile of her own.

She realises that Misty may be the only person in this coven who doesn’t blame her for Hank. She has never blamed her for anything, despite Cordelia’s many mistakes. All Misty has ever done is admire her, an admiration Cordelia absolutely does not feel she deserves.

“It’s not ya fault, alright?” Misty says gently, as though reading her thoughts, and Cordelia nods wordlessly.

Cordelia excuses herself after that, under the pretense of exhaustion, and Misty promises to clean up, telling her to get some rest.

She hates lying to Misty, but she can’t let her see her cough up the awful flowers taking root in her chest, which had begun to twist painfully with that one tiny smile. Misty is the sun which the flowers in Cordelia’s chest grow toward.

The instant she is alone, Cordelia coughs and coughs, her lungs burning, her chest tightening, tears falling from her mismatched eyes. She watches the petals tumble from her lips in a graceful, almost hypnotising spiral of yellow.

If she has to die so soon, she’s almost glad it’s like this.

 

* * *

Cordelia knows that Misty is in trouble when the flowers stop growing.

It has been days, and not a single petal has forced its way out of her lungs. The flowers don’t constrict either. They feel almost withered.

Cordelia should be glad. Except that she isn’t. She searches frantically for Misty, because the world doesn’t make sense without her. She is alone and she is terrified and she is starting to understand that she might need Misty a little more than she realises.

It doesn’t take her that long to gather the courage to do what she must. Down in the greenhouse where she and Misty created their magic, the table where they worked is clear, the plants put away. She wonders if the violence of the act she is about to commit will forever taint the space that once held only solace to her.

Cordelia smears a potion around her eyes, whispering to herself. She holds up a pair of garden shears, her hands shaking violently.  _ For the coven _ , she tells herself, but another, smaller voice in her head whispers,  _ for Misty _ .

Cordelia drives the shears through her eye, howling in pain. It is agony like she has never experienced before. Quickly, she unsticks the blade from the ruined mess of her eye, and shoves them into her other eye.

Her world explodes in a haze of blood and pure, unadulterated pain, and then there is nothing.

 

* * *

Cordelia kneels in a circle of Misty’s things, things she cannot see. She holds her hands over them, trying to pick up  _ something _ .

“ C’mon, Misty. Give me a hint,” she whispers desperately, her breathing heavy .  She scrabbles blindly with her hands to turn, aware of how weak and pathetic she must look.

Her hand hovers over an item of clothing (a dress?), and suddenly she hears Misty’s voice in her head, low and sweet, singing Landslide softly in an echoey room. Just as quickly as it comes, it fades away.

Cordelia holds the bundle of cloth to her face and inhales deeply - a faint lingering scent of earth after rain clings to her clothes; the strange, comforting scent of Misty Day. Vaguely, Cordelia wonders what that particular smell is called, and makes a mental note to look it up.

In her mind’s eye, she sees Misty clearly, lying in the dark, singing to herself. Her voice is quiet and desolate, and her face is in shadow. To her horror, Cordelia realises Misty isn’t in a dark room, she’s in a  coffin .

“I see you,” Cordelia breathes. Her heart beats a little faster. “I see you, where are you?”

The vision fades. Cordelia turns and instinctively reaches out, somehow already knowing where to turn. Her fingers touch a piece of jewellery (an earring, by the feel of it). Blindly, she feels at the metal, finding a sharp point. Without hesitation, she pricks her finger with the earring, feeling a momentary sting.

The singing resumes in her mind, and Cordelia sees it now - the cemetery they’d buried Nan in. She may not have been able to protect Nan, but she will do everything she can to save Misty.

 

* * *

When Misty takes her first breath, Cordelia feels the flowers in her chest unfurl, returning to life. Misty coughs for air, and while Queenie is distracted, Cordelia turns away and coughs silently into her hands, dropping the petals to the ground before anyone notices. It’s almost as though they’re welcoming Misty back to life.

With the resurrection of Misty Day, the flowers in Cordelia Goode’s chest come back to life.

 

* * *

Cordelia is terrified that someone will come in and find her kneeling on the floor, clutching her chest in agony, coughing her life out. Petals she cannot see spill from her lips, scattering across the floor. Blood stains her lips, running down her chin in a crimson line. Her coughing is ugly and painful and a form of pure weakness, and she cannot let anyone see just how pathetic she is.

She presses her hands to her mouth, coughing and wheezing. She has been careful to keep her coughs as quiet as she could for the past few weeks, but this bout of coughing tears a path of pure agony through her windpipe, far stronger than the pain she’s been experiencing since the flowers began growing. She finds out why, when an entire flower emerges from her mouth.

Cordelia feels the petals with shaking hands, using her hands to see. That’s definitely a whole flower. A whole goddamned daffodil.

“Well, shit,” she whispers to herself hoarsely, wiping the blood off her lips.

 

* * *

It’s a lot to live with. Blindness. The threat of her mother killing her girls. Having to keep said girls from tearing each other apart. The urgency to find a new Supreme. And of course, the flowers taking root in her lungs.

In her vision of the death of the coven, her mother had shot her between the eyes. That is her current path, if the flowers don’t kill her first, or on the off-chance that they manage to kill Fiona. Cordelia almost wants to laugh at the irony of it; both Fiona and Misty are trying to kill her, one knowingly and one unknowingly, and both in completely opposite ways. At this point, she isn’t quite sure who’s winning.

Since Misty’s return, the flowers have been growing faster than ever. Half the time, Cordelia coughs up whole flowers, stained with her blood. She is dying, and she is dying so fast.

She supposes it’s fitting, that the flowers growing inside her are daffodils. Daffodils symbolise rebirth and new beginnings. Misty, after all, is the witch of resurgence. Additionally, her arrival to the coven signifies a new beginning in her life, and ironically, the beginning of Cordelia’s death.

The other witches don’t think much of Misty. Zoe doesn’t seem to care much for her, Madison thinks she’s stupid, and most of her other girls only value her for her powers, which causes Cordelia’s heart to twinge in sadness.

She herself adores Misty for the magic she carries in her, beyond just her powers of resurgence. Cordelia adores her for the sparkle of her ocean-coloured eyes, for the way her smile lights up a room, for the way she glows when talking about Stevie Nicks, for the long talks they have during their greenhouse sessions, even for the way she shamelessly eats all the bagels in the house. Absolutely everything about this woman is hopelessly enchanting to Cordelia, and perhaps that is why she is dying so fast.

Cordelia wonders what she would look like after the Hanahaki disease kills her. She imagines that her body would be crumpled on the ground, broken and helpless, blood trailing from her lips, staining her hands. Stray smudges of blood, dirtying strands of her blonde hair, maybe even her clothes. Delicate petals, strewn all around her, also stained with blood. Whole flowers, emerging from her mouth, bright yellow against her pale skin. Her death would be all red and all yellow.

If anyone was to cut her open, they would see the flowers growing in her chest. They would see the wild daffodils - their petals the colour of Misty’s hair - weaving through her ribcage, encircling her lungs, twisting their way around her windpipe, growing their way out of her throat. They would see her love for Misty Day, given life in the deadliest way.

It might just be the most beautiful way in the world to die.

 

* * *

“She’s stuck. We have to help her,” Cordelia says. With Misty’s body so close, it is easy to read her. There is no trace of the light she felt when she first read her; at this moment, Misty’s entire world is darkness. She catches a glimpse of Misty’s personal hell, and her heart aches for the gentle soul in her arms.

“There’s nothing we can do. She has to get back on her own,” Myrtle replies without emotion.

“Misty,” Cordelia whispers, holding her close. She doesn’t care if everyone is watching, she doesn’t care how this looks, she only cares about Misty.

“Follow my voice,” she continues, struggling to keep her voice steady. “We are all here waiting for you.”

Misty’s body is heavy in her arms. She is just barely breathing. Cordelia can feel the flowers in her chest convulse with every breath Misty takes, mirroring Cordelia’s own agitation.

Cordelia is momentarily glad to be blind; she is able to be close to Misty through this ordeal in a way that she wouldn’t have been able to had she not reactivated her second sight. One of her hands is buried in Misty’s curls, the other on her back, gently cradling Misty to her chest, where the daffodils writhe and twist. With Misty in such close proximity to Cordelia, she inhales Misty’s sweet, earthy scent with every breath she takes.

_ Petrichor _ , Cordelia thinks to herself absently, remembering the term for it.  _ Hey, Misty, I looked this up just for you, because it’s what you smell like, and it’s lovely, so please come back, so I can tell you. _

“Sequere. Lucem. Venite ad me,” she whispers.  _ Follow the light, come to me _ . She sends a quiet prayer to whatever forces out there to please, let Misty hear her, and come home.

The steady sound of the sand sifting through the hourglass stops abruptly, leaving behind an awful, deafening silence.

“Her time is up,” Myrtle announces.

Cordelia doesn’t realise how tightly she’s holding on to Misty until she disappears.

Misty’s body dissolves into ashes, and suddenly Cordelia’s hands are clutching at nothing, the softness of her curls replaced with the emptiness of the air. She feels dust settling on her palms, on her skirt, presumably on the carpet too. Cordelia doesn’t notice it then, but the tightness in her chest disappears too.

“No, no no,” Cordelia chokes out between sobs, shaking hands feeling around for the weight they had just been carrying, confused and uncomprehending. Lost and alone, Cordelia feels around for Misty, but she is gone.

 

* * *

When Cordelia is crowned Supreme, her damaged eyes repair themselves, and the world is suddenly vibrant and new. She feels stronger, as though she has been reborn. Her hair is thick and shiny, her skin glowing, the constant exhaustion weighing her down lifted. For the first time in her life, Cordelia Goode feels radiant.

Cordelia touches a hand to her heart, and finds no trace of the flowers that were slowly killing her over the past few weeks. It’s as though they were never there. When Misty crumbled into ashes, Cordelia’s flowers did the same. She always thought those flowers were tied to her life force, draining the strength from her, but they’ve always been Misty’s.

In healing from the disease, Cordelia will live, but that means that Misty is gone for good, and Cordelia will never see her again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Misty comes home to Cordelia in a doorway of light.

Cordelia’s heart stops for a single, endless moment, and then her face is crumbling, and she can’t stop the tears falling from her eyes.

Misty still looks just like she does in Cordelia’s memories, if not more weary, but that is to be expected, given all that she had been through. Her ocean-coloured eyes are full of a tired sadness, but are still the exact same shade of blue Cordelia remembers and loves. As usual, she is wrapped protectively in the shawl Stevie gave her years ago.

All the memories flood back to Cordelia in a split second - late-night magic lessons, plant healing sessions in the greenhouse, Misty dying in her arms, and daffodils, growing in Cordelia’s chest. In that split second, she swears she feels that familiar, painful twinge.

Cordelia reaches for Misty and pulls her into a tight embrace, alongside Nan, who was the one who delivered her. She holds on to her girls tightly, and inhales the mingling scents of Misty and Nan - petrichor and hellfire.

Nan departs from them afterward, to return to hell, and Cordelia is confused and a little sad, but not that much. Nan seems happy where she is, and more importantly, Misty has come back to her.

Cordelia introduces Misty to Mallory, though Mallory almost seems like she’s met Misty before. She’s an unusual one, Mallory. The younger witch excuses herself, cryptically saying to Cordelia and Misty, “I’m sure you two have a lot to catch up on.”

Cordelia doesn’t ask, she just looks at Misty and smiles. Misty is smiling too, and in spite of the sadness in her eyes, she is glowing, just like the Misty Cordelia knew and loved, all those years ago.

She reaches out to hug Misty again (or does Misty reach out first? She isn’t sure, but it doesn’t matter), and she holds on to her so tightly, closing her eyes and inhaling Misty’s scent, pure and untainted. No matter how many times Cordelia has dreamed of this, nothing will ever compare to the feeling of really getting to hold Misty. She is warm and strong and  _ real _  in Cordelia’s arms, and all Cordelia wants is to hold her forever.

“How I’ve missed you,” Misty breathes softly. “I was ever so lost, in the darkness.”

That short sentence breaks Cordelia’s heart. She closes her eyes, comforting the other witch with her embrace. Abruptly, she feels that painful twinge again, and she registers it this time. It is the exact same pain she felt all those years ago, while falling in love with Misty. She never thought she would see the day when she welcomed its return.

Cordelia holds Misty close, feeling the daffodils grow in her chest, and she has never been so happy to die.

 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading , and please leave kudos / a comment if you liked it ! <3


End file.
